


as we dance with the devil tonight

by purpleshell



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Play, Exhibitionism, M/M, Mark and Hyuck are both vampires, Minor Character Death, Vampires, but it's all Donghyuck's fault cause he has no self control, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 00:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29269497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleshell/pseuds/purpleshell
Summary: Mark knows that Donghyuck, up to this day, hates the opera more than anything, yet he still agreed on accompanying him and putting on his burgundy suit, ruffled collar and all. A 19th century dream.Because with Donghyuck, there is always something else, something covering in the dark. And tonight, beneath the Vienna skies, as Mark hands in their tickets, it is no different.//or alternatively: markhyuck is an ancient vampire couple in which donghyuck adores anything modern times gift them, while mark still writes letters to him and thinks their best date was when they stormed the bastille 230 years ago, so it's perfectly logical that mark takes him out for opera even if that means donghyuck losing any sense of control he had over his thirst
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee
Comments: 14
Kudos: 103





	as we dance with the devil tonight

**Author's Note:**

> basically an idea i couldn't get out of my head ever since talking with [pumpkimark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkimark) (most amazing and talented writer, please check out their work) about vampire markhyuck, so here is the final product which i hope you will enjoy <3

It's the first night in forever, Mark thinks, to have Donghyuck dressed in his only suit and walk with their hands intertwined into the opera house.

The last time they spent their night listening to arias was at the premiere of _Salome_ back in 1905, just a few days before Christmas that Donghyuck so eagerly insisted on celebrating, their damned souls cast aside on that very special occasion. Because for Donghyuck it was all about those special occasions and favors he did for others, even _Salome_ (“They’re using Oscar’s libretto, love. Skipping it would do me a great dishonor. After all, we were such good friends.”). The same would be now, a century later, as Donghyuck depends on the urge to take opportunities and cast them into stage lights, during most unexpected, lenient times. Mark knows that Donghyuck, up to this day, hates the opera more than anything, yet he still agreed on accompanying him and putting on his burgundy suit, ruffled collar and all. A 19th century dream.

With Donghyuck, there is always something else, something covering in the dark. And tonight, beneath the Vienna skies, as Mark hands in their tickets, it is no different.

“They all smell so delicious,” Donghyuck whispers, taking in the crowd wrapped in silk and velvet, “so rich and pretentious. My favorite.”

Mark allows Donghyuck to untangle their arms so they could take off their coats, the petite girl behind the counter giving them her well-practiced, courteous, smile. Donghyuck takes her in with dilated pupils.

“She won’t do, don’t worry. I saw you get worried down there,” he tells Mark as they start climbing the stairs towards their loge.

“I don’t remember bringing you here to hunt,” Mark says, refusing Donghyuck the pleasure of reflecting in his own crimson gaze – it’s ridiculous, he’s fed before their arrival, he won’t fall into Donghyuck’s trap. Instead, Mark’s focuses on the Arts, greeting them with a silent nod. Their marble expressions, frozen in time, welcome him. (From the corner of his eye, he catches Poetry blinking at him. She knows she’s always been his favorite.)

“You didn’t, but you forgot that I always like to get the best out of everything,” Donghyuck squeezes his arm, trailing his fingers down the slope of Mark’s sleeve. He pauses only to play with the ruby cuffs on Mark’s wrist. “You also should have thought of the consequences when you decided to bring me into the most _exquisite_ restaurant of all.”

Mark hears him click his tongue, nearly growling at a woman coming down the stairs. Pure silk trails after her, throat pearly as jewels queens of the East wore. Composed as he was, even Mark couldn’t remain unfazed by the smell of Virginia Slims and roses in summer lingering in the air. Donghyuck’s pupils drown in the sea of red.

“Oh _her,_ ” Donghyuck’s eyes roll to the back of his head, nostrils flaring. He cranes his neck a tad to the side so he catches the direction she went to and bids Mark farewell after a kiss on the back of his hand. With a sigh, Mark watches him rush down the marble stairs, trapped in hues of brass vines and emerald carpet.

He tries not to worry. Donghyuck always comes back to him.

Mark fixes the collar of his suit and continues in the search for their loge. As if this was their first time here, as if Mark didn’t bring Donghyuck here months after the Great War, to honor their second century of being forever devoted to the souls of one another, Mark feigns ignorance of the seating order and flatters himself in the way the usher flusters when he puts a hand on her elbow, thanking her for guiding him to his destined floor. 

He remembers Donghyuck telling him once of how unaware he was of his own impious allure. The night they’d met, when Donghyuck, a bubonic poet with lips tinged violet, ashy skin and life dripping from his fingertips, followed Mark through the empty streets of Marseilles, he’d clung onto the edges of the immortal’s coat, enticing him. (“My soul is already doomed. So why not let the world know it?)

It rained that night, winter of 1720, as Mark carried Donghyuck’s lifeless body to his room, placing him on the linen sheets, waiting. The poet’s shirt had been torn, soaked in red around his neck, swollen tissue fading into ceramic, nearly translucent skin. Later, while Donghyuck observed the crescent mark, like a blood moon, on his collar bone, he would turn to his creator with a promise of havoc on his tongue and help Mark realize that this boy, torn oh-so-selfishly from the hands of death, was his most beautiful creation.

“How could I not,” Donghyuck laughed when Mark asked him how he knew who – _what_ – he was, “you appeared to me so many times before, in my dreams. You’re the one I wrote about, dear Mark. My muse.”

And even with the seasons changing, Donghyuck adapting to modern times, throwing away his old suits for leather jackets and torn jeans, he is forever there to whisper the sweet verses into Mark’s temple, force him to immerse a thumb into the crescent mark he still carries just to be reminded of the beauty of pain.

Head caught in reminiscence, Mark steps onto their balcony. He takes in the reds of the seats, brilliant lights, freshly painted rosewood, blood thrumming through the audience’s veins. The loudest, most protruding ones, came from behind the stage – ballet dancers, palpating like sparrow’s wings. Their hearts always beat the loudest.

The first notes of the overture play and Mark lets his head fall back.

He ignores the powerful sense of temptation breaking through the composition, through the orchestra and pointe shoes tapping somewhere in the back. It weaves around the staves, tenors, war cries and lovers’ quarrels sang of.

Familiar warmth settles on his shoulder. Mark resists the urge to interlace his fingers through Donghyuck’s.

“My friend I told you about,” Donghyuck whispers to someone, his voice blending with the music. Mark doesn’t have to turn to know it was the woman from the foyer, her particular scent recognizable even to a mortal, let alone him, a 500-year-old vampire.

She offers him her hand and Mark places a tingling kiss right where the black Chantilly lace pressed into her skin. Through the delicate gloves, faintly, her fingers smell like tobacco.

“Your friend is really well-mannered,” she giggles, allowing Donghyuck to guide her towards the two seats behind Mark. “You don’t find that a lot in men these days.”

“My friend does live in some forgotten times. You don’t think he’s a prude?” Mark hears Donghyuck say, but he lets the rest of their conversation fade into nothingness, his attention devoted to the second act unfolding before his blood-thirsty orbs.

Mark's pupils dilate, skin tingling as if licked by flames, at the expectation of his favorite bit in Aida - the Triumphal March. The stage shimmers in hues of golden sand and Mark leans from his seat, over the rail, to take a better look at the riches of Ancient Egypt coming to life before them. The buttons on his suit jacket, dark velvet and tailored by the latest Parisian fashion of the 1870s, now too small, dig uncomfortably into his skin. He only wore it for the philosophy of beauty, really. 

And maybe, just a little, to match Donghyuck. It was their special night, after all.

One glance at the stage and Mark must admit it's impressive. Yet, nothing could compare to the premiere he attended back in Milano, Donghyuck's fingers shyly twisting around his, Verdi himself bowing on the stage, bathed in thunderous claps. His chest tightens at the memory.

At last, the first tunes echo through the opera house at the same time a voice screams behind him. The audience doesn’t look away from the stage. The pharaoh greets the army.

"Hyuck, please, keep it down. You know this is my favorite part."

The menace himself looks up from the unfortunate woman's torn neck, his mouth in the same shade of dark red as her silk dress. He gives Mark an apologetic grin, two elongated fangs, sharp as blades, peeking from behind his plush lips.

Reasons such as this are why Mark always insisted on a private loge. Each night, no matter the occasion, Donghyuck danced with the devil.

"Sorry, babe. I'll make sure I leave some for you too."

He truly was their most beautiful creation.

It turns out the slurping sounds – Donghyuck always tended to be a bit theatrical in his performance – and the muffled whimpers are impossible to ignore. Another sequence of applause, the March coming to an end, just as Donghyuck raises his head, calling Mark by his name.

“You’re missing out on a lot,” he says, lapping the gaping wound with his tongue. His prey shudders out her last breath. On the stage, Aida runs to her father while Mark’s fingers dig into his thigh at the sound of bones breaking somewhere in the back. A lifeless, dull, thump and Donghyuck is at his side in a second.

His hand seeks Mark’s.

“What did I miss?”

Mark squeezes his hand with a soft hum.

“The King is to declare the marriage.”

“ _Gloria all'Egitto,_ ” Donghyuck mouths, bringing Mark’s palm to his lips, gently kissing the inside of his wrist. Delicate, always so delicate with Mark, even with the blood on his teeth marring the chaste press of their lips.

“You should get rid of that before the next act,” Mark says with another kiss, caressing the side of Donghyuck’s face lovingly. His lover leans into the touch.

“I thought you’d be interested too,” Donghyuck glances at the pair of matte pumps peeking from beneath the drape. Then, he shakes his head, gripping the back of Mark’s bleached strands. Donghyuck’s eyes reflect the relinquished sate when their gazes meet. “Oh – _right._ I forgot about your peculiar taste. You only prefer sickly poets that recite sonnets to you beneath the crescent moon—“

“I know what you’re doing,” Mark cuts him, Donghyuck’s glistening mouth opening in pretend shock, “do what you’re told. Get rid of her.”

Donghyuck’s feeble fingers relax in their grip, settling on the back of Mark’s neck instead. And Mark – he knows he’s made a beginner’s mistake. Donghyuck _loved_ being ordered around.

Harshly, Mark has to grasp the sides of the other vampire’s waist, the risk of him slipping away impossible yet the desire to possess Donghyuck forever thrumming through his hands. The velvety curve of Donghyuck’s ass pressed into his groin and Mark only then he realizes how painfully hard he is.

He’s tempting, always, from the moment he met him, Donghyuck’s been weaving strings through Mark’s limbs, binding them for a lifetime, using moments like this to prove the power he held over his creator. Donghyuck holds onto him – a mere pretend show, he gives Mark a pretend sense of control – as his head falls back, back bending over the rail.

Everyone claps. The curtain falls.

“No, I won’t.”

“ _Donghyuck_ ,” Mark growls, warns.

An eye roll. Easily, he falls back against Mark’s chest.

The theatre explodes into hundreds of cheers. The choir chants to Osiris, but not loud enough to drown out Donghyuck’s petty whimpers against his ear. He’s doing it on purpose, Mark knows, dramatically fawning in his arms, baring an ivory neck for all his crimson temptation.

With a sickening familiarity, he wipes off the blood from Donghyuck’s lips.

“What a vile little creature—“

“—you are in love with.”

Mark’s always been ungracious with his feelings. It is why he allows his hands to speak for him, the ones ruled by his lover, bony and red, as they dig into Donghyuck’s hips, a reminder.

“Undress me, Mark. I won’t wait anymore.”

Mark scowls, digging one sharp fingernail into the butterfly-like expanse of Donghyuck’s wrist, fragile and dotted in a web of ruptured veins. It was Mark’s favorite place to feed off of, after all.

“Will this be enough?” Mark’s fangs dig into the soft flesh of his bottom lip as he brings Donghyuck’s wrist to his mouth. The despair of his most recent victim reeked from the single drop sliding down Donghyuck’s arm, disappearing beneath the silk sleeve.

Donghyuck dares to act shy.

“Until we get home?”

“Until we get home.”

A female voice wails in despair, torn between her love and loyalty to her native land, principles, doomed to fall as a traitor to her father. Somewhere along the way, Mark wonders when he began to feel the same once Donghyuck rubs the coarse spot on his throat, dragging his lips over the pale skin – a traitor to his instilled urges to tear and kill for some frail poet with skin as honey, tongue stained with pomegranate seeds so so sweet against Mark’s own.

The top button of Donghyuck’s shirt falls open and Mark marvels at the galaxy covering under the ruffled layers. A crescent moon glows beautifully, a watchful guard to sidereus moles.

“Do you promise?” Donghyuck asks, face pressed against Mark’s neck.

Mark promises and bites down.

For a split second, Donghyuck goes still as Mark’s fangs break through the papyrus thin skin, tasting the silk dress thrown on the floor of the loge, the elevator boy from their hotel, some store clerk from the tiny souvenir shop. All for today.

Donghyuck’s hips buck into his when Mark growls under his breath.

“You little freak,” he pulls away, forcing Donghyuck to look at him with fingers digging into his cheeks, round and soft, “when will it be enough for you?”

Donghyuck mumbles something incoherent through his puckered, bloodied, lips and Mark revels in this rare moment of control he has over his insatiable lover. Because it was always Donghyuck’s hand around his throat, Donghyuck sliding rope around his wrists, through the headboard, Mark pretending he couldn’t break through his binds with a flick of a wrist, acting weak, acting human. All for Donghyuck, just like tonight. Mark would do anything for him.

Wordlessly, Mark indulges into Donghyuck’s wishes, taking more of him from the same wound on his wrist. And the selfish creature in his lap dares to ask for more, more, always more.

With skilled fingers, Mark gets the zipper of Donghyuck’s dress pants, naked underneath, skims his hand down the firm thighs framing his body. He tastes more like Donghyuck now, heavenly even.

Indistinctly, Mark can recognize the dramatic intro of plans destined to fail, lovers caught in embrace, _Pur ti riveggo, mia dolce Aida_.

“Mark, my love,” he pulls his wrist away, admiring the way Mark’s mouth lingers half-open, just right for Donghyuck to slide his tongue through, earning a hiss when their fangs clash. His cock feels heavy in Mark’s hand, pearly white drops staining the expensive material of his pants.

Mark’s mouth is anything but kind and he never lasts long in his patience, not when Donghyuck tangles his fingers through the bleached strands, cursing in some old dialect only he still insisted on speaking. 

“Do you still want it?” Mark asks, eyes so red they slowly began fading into black, the very pits of hell he keeps falling through day after day. “Is this enough for you now, angel?” he squeezes his fingers around the base of Donghyuck’s cock, pinching the tip as it leaks prettily down his palm. 

Donghyuck doesn’t get to respond, not then Mark crashes their bodies on the floor, behind the rail, still visible to anyone if they dared to glance in the wrong direction.

There is enough space for him to force Donghyuck’s legs open. A tiny sigh as his pants get dragged to his ankles, allowing Mark to settle between them and take in all that is his, his, all of Donghyuck’s insatiability, he will be there to take it all, just to have this profane boy follow him to hell and back.

“Lustful creature, you came prepared,” he smears the wetness over the puckered rim, admiring the shudder coursing through Donghyuck’s being. His shirt and suit are bunched around his armpits, the ruffled collar sticking against the dried blood around his mouth. 

Instead of blush, a web of miniscule capillary breaks over Donghyuck’s skin, turning him into an image of a tormented martyr. He forces Mark down, down, forces him to confess his sins with a drink from his thigh, blood sweeter than blackberry wine.

“I won’t fuck you now,” because while Donghyuck indulges in this bottomless insatiability, Mark takes proud in his patience, “not until I drink the very last drop out of you, Donghyuck, not until there is nothing but _me_ left to fill you up to the brim, just to have spill over the edges, empty you and do it over and over again.”

“Possessive bastard,” Donghyuck laughs breathlessly, quivering like a moth in the wind, “end your suffering and mine too.”

“Suffering? When did you become so foolish, love?”

Vocal in his demands, Donghyuck warns of the consequences Mark will endure if he doesn’t give him what he wants, _right now, Mark,_ that he will expose their little secret, throw the woman’s corpse over the rail and into the auditorium, never visit opera with him again, he will _hate_ him. And it’s always that, always empty threats of hate that bring Mark’s teeth forcefully into the plains of the poet’s skin, holding him down by his waist while he takes all, all that which is Donghyuck’s, all that belongs to him. To Mark and no one else.

That is why Mark tries not to worry. Donghyuck does come back to him after each little escapade, right into his arms, spilling over the brim untouched, just the way Mark predicted.

The third act fades into the last one.

“Patience,” Mark coos, pulling Donghyuck against his chest as he settles back in his seat. He tucks his limp cock into his pants, guiding Donghyuck’s face with a firm grip on the flushed chin. “Pay attention. You love this part the most. I’ll try not to distract you.”

Ironically enough, Mark’s other favorite part of Donghyuck, other than his frail wrists, is his neck. It has nothing to do with the vampire enthrallment, Mark convinces himself, but more with his need to turn each spot on Donghyuck’s body into a relic. He pulls down the back of his collar, rubbing his nose against the bronze skin there. 

This time, Mark tastes desperation. It settles over them with the last act, forces Donghyuck to seek support against the sturdy body behind him as the skin of his neck tears open. The inside of his pants feels sticky, wet.

Through thick fog, Donghyuck watches Aida and her lover buried alive.

“ _Morir mi sento,_ ” he manages to utter once the stage falls into darkness. Donghyuck lets his eyes fall closed and Mark takes them back to their hotel, the Vienna streets empty save for the two shadows seeking life in the arms of one another.

Mark’s blood is mahogany red on his finger as he accidentally cuts himself on the paper knife, fading into reds of a summer rose on Donghyuck’s lips. The silk sheets crumple beneath Donghyuck’s body as he curls into himself, peeking at Mark through his eyelashes. Moonlight danced over his body like the sun did over the clear waters.

“They’re showing Tosca tomorrow.”

Donghyuck grins all menacing and red. He flings himself into Mark’s arms.

“ _O Marco, Avanti a Dio_!”

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/dawndeer99) | [cc](https://curiouscat.qa/dawndeer99)
> 
> translations and some historical facts:  
> Gloria all'Egitto – glory to Egypt  
> Pur ti riveggo, mia dolce Aida – once more I see you, my sweet Aida  
> Morir mi sento - I shall surely die  
> O Marco, Avanti a Dio – oh Mark, (we meet) before God (the original line goes: O Scarpia, Avanti a Dio)
> 
> \- Salome, composed by Richard Strauss, was first performed in Dresden on 9 December 1905, based on the German translation of Salome by Oscar Wilde (I just like to imagine vampire poet Hyuck being good friends with Wilde during the 1890s and the other playwriters of that time)  
> \- The Great Plague of Marseille was the last major outbreak of bubonic plague in western Europe. Arriving in Marseille, France in 1720, the disease killed a total of 100,000 people.  
> \- While Aida was first performed in Cairo in 1871, Verdi did not attend the premiere there, as he was dissatisfied with the fact that the audience consisted of invited dignitaries, politicians and critics, with no members of the general public. He therefore considered the Italian (and European) premiere, held at La Scala, Milan on 8 February 1872, and a performance in which he was heavily involved at every stage, to be its real premiere.  
> \- the last line from this fic is based on the last lines of Tosca in the opera of the same name, the ones she cries before she flings herself into the hands of death (yay for metaphors of Donghyuck jumping into hands of Mark who granted him eternal life through death)


End file.
